The Son is Burning
by dansunedisco
Summary: [Implied LukeNoah. Oneshot.] Noah's comingout party starts when he's thirteen, but no one's wearing party hats.


**Characters:** Noah, Winston, Luke, Maddie, Other. Implied Luke/Noah.  
**Rating:** M.  
**Warnings:** Extreme speculation on Noah's past, Noah/Other, swearing, angst.  
**Summary:** Noah's coming-out party starts when he's thirteen, but no one's wearing party hats.  
**Disclaimer: **The characters belong to their respective owners. 

--

_13._

He couldn't kick a ball.

He couldn't throw a ball.

He couldn't hit a ball.

Noah really (_really_) hated sports, plain and simple, because they all involved a ball. He couldn't imagine a sport without a ball, that's how bad his hate was. Because he knew that, somehow, somewhere, there'd be a ball coming at him. Bouncing off of him; making his wrists red and his shoulders pop. And if he were especially _lucky_, there'd be multiple balls. All of them coming at him, bouncing off him, leaving yellow bruises on his body to remind him. Just in case he ever forgot how much he hated the 'ball trifecta: dodge, basket, base.

But it wasn't as if he spontaneously indulged in his ball-hate. He wasn't totally crazy. He needed a trigger.

Him and his father eating dinner was enough of one.

(Well, _he _was eating.)

Colonel _Dad_ was just talking and talking and scraping his fork against his plate.

"I cannot understand why you don't want to play on the Little League team, Noah."

Noah pretended to not hear and made a show of chewing his food extra loudly.

"I'm talking to you, Noah." The scraping stopped. "I would enjoy it if this were a two-sided conversation."

Noah swallowed. "Yes, Sir."

"Then?"

His eyes flickered across the cramped kitchen-space. "I don't like balls."

His dad raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

He tried a different angle. "I don't know how to play."

"With enough training anything can be remedied."

"But I..." He hated sports. "Do I have to do baseball, like, specifically?"

If his dad were eating anything, Noah was sure he'd have choked.

"I played baseball when I was your age," Winston said. "And I played through high school and college. I want you to do the same. Tradition is important to uphold."

"I know, Sir." Noah bit the inside of his cheek. He had a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to wriggle his way out of this one.

"Good."

They ate in an uncomfortable silence for five minutes before Noah felt compelled to speak.

"Will you teach me?"

"Teach you what?

"Baseball."

"You know I'm busy, Noah."

_And you know I can't play. _"I know, Sir."

Winston shifted in his seat. "Maybe this weekend."

Noah's eyes snapped up to his father's for the first time since they'd sat down. "Really?"

"Maybe." His father already looked like he regretted speaking.

Noah was about to nod gravely or say something smart, but the phone rang. Winston got up to answer it and, after a few monotonous replies, gave Noah his best _I'm really very sorry, but this is more important than you _look.

Winston was out the door not two minutes later, raincoat and briefcase in hand.

Noah washed the dishes as soon as he finished the last of his mashed potatoes. It was a familiar routine after that. He pushed the chairs in on his way through the dining room and turned off the lights on his way out.

He turned the television on, flopped down on the couch, and wondered who would keep him company tonight.

-

Friday came and Sunday went and Noah learned nothing new.

Baseball still sucked (a lot) and his dad couldn't take one hour of his damn life to throw a damn ball at him.

-

If he could play, maybe his father would have that one hour to spare.

If he could play, maybe he'd play all through high school and college.

If he could play, he'd be tradition.

-

Noah threw the baseball all weekend by himself for a week before he started throwing the ball every day of the next five. When he couldn't lift his arm anymore, he'd taken to running around the pitch and watching the older boys play, repeating Casablanca dialogue like a mantra when he thought he was about to collapse.

It was strangely inspiring.

--

_14._

He'd come a long way since his days of impromptu baseball practice.

Joining the team had been easier than he'd thought, because only those who needed to be put out of their misery were cut. Noah, while significantly lacking in any appropriate skill, had proven himself as willing to work hard. And hard work (with a high-ranking father) got people far around here. It took him weeks to understand the baseball lingo and, even now, he didn't care much for it all. But sometimes he thought he'd seen his father climbing into the stands, into a sea of other parents.

It made learning plays, feeling the burn of muscle, worth it.

He pushed the door to their home--housing unit--open.

He scanned the room.

His father emerged from his room, a box cradled in his arms. "You're home late."

"Practice ran longer than usual, Sir."

"It won't happen again."

Noah blinked, a sinking feeling slowly beginning to set in.

They were moving again.

Moving wasn't anything new to him, but his father usually gave him several day's notice beforehand. It was a rare instance where they'd just uproot and leave like ghosts.

"Sir?" He tightened his grip on his duffel bag.

"I expect your things packed by oh-seven-hundred."

Noah licked his lips. "Yes, Sir."

Winston placed the box down on the coffee table and began to rummage through it.

Noah took that as his cue to get to his duty and went straight for his room.

"And, Noah?--"

Noah paused by the doorway.

A cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

"--If I _ever _find you hiding comic books from me again..."

_There will be hell to pay._

"Yes, Sir."

He packed away Marlon and James Dean first.

"Ready for another adventure, guys?"

He felt his eyes prick with tears and wondered when his father would finally take them away, too.

--

_15._

They moved three times in the year Noah turned fifteen. It was a fairly unmemorable year.

He'd barely have enough time to get himself used to the new social circles, classes, and city before his father would open his door and tell him they'd be leaving soon.

"Yes, Sir," he'd say. What else _could_ he say?

His father apologized once that year. Noah had managed to wrangle himself onto the baseball team and it was such a shame, because Noah had a good throwing arm. Noah never managed to figure out why he'd apologized for baseball, of all things, but he only smiled whenever he thought of it.

He hadn't touched a baseball since he was fourteen.

--

_16._

"Well, back in Roman times, men took other men for lovers--"

"Lovers? What the fuck is _that_? Dude, it almost sounds like you're defending the fags."

"What? No way! Just because I'm referencing historical fact doesn't make me the defender of gays."

"Maybe. But it still doesn't make it _right_."

"Of course not."

Noah tapped out a tune on his thigh, in time to the music blaring from Andrew's stereo.

His father hated Andrew.

Noah considered Andrew his first best friend

They'd met in the back of Spanish Honors--Noah made a wise crack about the teacher, with a reference to one of his favorite movies of _all time--_and Andrew had invited him to sit with him in the cafeteria after class. Apparently he was a football jock who'd spent years squashed between his father and grandpa, watching old black and white movies until it actually became a hobby of his. Noah had ribbed him about it for days after learning that tidbit.

Two months later he was a regular at Andrew's house. Another month and he finally had the nerve to stop calling Andrew's mom and dad _Ma'am _and _Sir. _It was strangely exhilarating.

"Ever been with a chick?"

He was sitting on the floor, his neck propped up by the bed. Andrew was sitting next to him, flipping through a magazine.

It was probably a _Playboy _or something.

Noah laughed. "My dad would _freak _if he even caught me in _conversation _with a girl. His head would pop off if he thought I was having sex."

"I thought he wanted you to be a _real man_." Andrew smirked.

"Whatever that means."

Small conversations like that that had Noah extremely uncomfortable.

The thought of Andrew screwing anything always scared the _shit_ out of him. Not because Noah wanted his dick in Jenna Jameson or anything, because he didn't. But because he'd already tried that fantasy, and each time it ended with him jerking off to the image of Andrew on his knees, his mouth where Noah's hands were. The first time it'd happened, Noah had thought it was a fluke. The second, too. And the third and fourth and fifth.

Around the sixth time was when Noah realized he was entirely fucked.

"You okay, man?"

Noah ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I'm cool. I just have a lot on my mind."

"You should ask the blonde Jessica to Homecoming. She's good at distracting."

Noah shrugged. He'd always found her to be a little horse-faced. "No point in having her waste her talents. I probably won't be able to go."

"And miss my big game?"

He hesitated. "I wouldn't know what to do with her anyway."

Andrew gave him a side-long glance. He'd stopped fingering through the magazine and had left it open at the centerfold. "What about guys?"

Noah recoiled. "What?"

"Have you ever--?"

Noah didn't know whether to laugh or jump through the window. What kind of question was that? he thought. Just a few minutes ago Andrew had been ragging on _fags_. Noah wasn't any better, really, but--what kind of question was that? He felt a small chill run down his spine.

His throat was tight and he barely managed to say, "No. Have you?"

-

"You're to stop seeing your friend."

Noah stopped chewing his food and looked up at his father.

Winston was flushed red, but didn't look otherwise upset.

Noah knew, right then, that he was in deep shit.

"I don't understand," he said.

"He is a bad influence on you and you will terminate any relations with him immediately."

"Dad--"

Winston slammed his palm against their kitchen table. The plates rattled as water sloshed over the lip of his glass. "I've seen you, Noah! Don't think I haven't--" He must have realized that he was nearly shouting and took an unsteady breath. He looked upwards, sideways, anywhere but Noah's stunned face. "Don't think I haven't seen you."

_Shit, shit, shit. _Noah's stomach turned.

Maybe it was something else.

Maybe it wasn't him and _that _and...

Noah shook his head. "I--I don't..."

"Don't disgrace me anymore by talking." Winston set his jaw. "If I ever see you with him again..."

Noah couldn't breathe.

"Yes, Sir."

He couldn't breathe.

--

_17._

He tried to convince his father that he wasn't gay.

When that didn't work, he tried to convince himself that he wasn't gay.

--

_18._

"I'm... gay."

He took a deep breath and repeated: "I'm gay."

The mirror he was facing didn't break. He wasn't struck down by a stray bolt of lightning. His father didn't burst through the door and throttle him.

They were just two words, but just saying them took all the courage he usually reserved for telling the Colonel _bad news_. And instead of getting easier to say with each try, it only got harder; cemented what he'd been denying for a good few years.

He didn't even know who he was anymore.

The heat he felt around those he was attracted to had always been a source of deep guilt for him. Nights he would whack off to a picture of James Dean had him asking himself _what the fuck is wrong with me_? Walking around the Base (different name; same damn place) had given him a clear picture of just how _different _he was. Being a man was everything sometimes. And it was solid fact that real men didn't like other men.

_That's gay _was synonymous with _that's stupid _and _queers _were just pussies.

His father confronting him about his _thing _with Andrew had only made it that much worse.

It wasn't easy to pretend that things were fine, but it wasn't as if it were anything new.

-

Noah hadn't wanted to disappoint his father, but there were just some things he couldn't fake.

An avid interest in baseball, cars, tits and ammo--it just wasn't _him. _He loved watching old movies, Marlon Brando; doing creative things. But the son of a Colonel couldn't involve himself with theater, shouldn't watch Double Indemnity religiously.

Growing up had been hard enough trying to tailor himself to his father's standards. Being a circle when he should have been a square hadn't helped at all. Never once, in all his life, had his father let him forget his quiet _shame_ that Noah wasn't what he'd wanted.

And now Noah was gripping his bathroom sink, repeating the words his father would gladly kill him over.

If Noah could keep it to himself, he thought he would. But he needed to stop running. Sooner or later he would become too tired to keep going. And what then? Ten years down the line, a gold band on his finger, maybe a child or two; fucking some guy on the side because he couldn't touch her anymore without remembering the blond boy he gave up for a farce.

Would he finally tell Maddie the truth _then_? The thought was almost laughable. He let go of the sink, flexed his fingers.

What an amazing man he would be.

A man his father could be truly proud of.

He was out of breath already.

-

It was nearing an ungodly hour, but he was still awake.

The moon, its way completely clear of clouds, shone brightly in the sky. It seemed a perfect night for the air to be cool and crisp, yet it was unbearably hot and sticky. It reminded him of the first time he'd been here. And, as much as he wanted to think of anything _else_, the parallels were too much for him to blatantly ignore.

For one thing, he was standing outside of Luke's house.

He tried gathering the will to call Luke's cellphone--there was no way he was knocking on the door and throwing rocks at windows never worked--but came up with nothing.

What could he possibly say at two in the morning that wouldn't make him out to be a total asshole? Very little. Very, very little. He took a deep breath as the absurdity of the situation knocked into him suddenly. He couldn't breathe. He must have been out of his mind to drive out to the Snyder farm, out of his mind to even consider having a conversation at this hour.

He turned on his heel, the gravel from the path twisting underfoot, and jog-walked back to his car.

Half-way to his destination, he heard the door snap open and a familiar voice call out into the darkness. "Noah?"

_Run. Run far away. Don't look back. Run. _His step faltered and he came to a dead stop.

"Noah! Noah."

Luke must have started jogging as soon as he'd opened the door because the crunch of the gravel couldn't have been more than a meter away from Noah's back. He felt exposed this way--not that Luke would club him over the head with a meat cleaver or anything--and turned around.

Luke was staring at him, arms crossed.

He had a pretty bad cowlick on the left side of his hair, and he was wearing the WOAK intern t-shirt they'd all been given but wouldn't be dead caught wearing during the workday. A fluffy, pink slipper--most definitely a girl's slipper--tapped against the ground impatiently; it took Noah a moment to realize that Luke really _was _wearing bunny slippers. Menacingly.

Noah hadn't ever seen Luke look so casually pissed off before.

His mouth was uncomfortably dry all of a sudden. "I... I--"

"Well, that's good, because I was wondering what you were doing here at two in the morning. But that just explained everything."

"I had my first boyfriend when I was sixteen," he blurted out. It wasn't what he'd wanted to say at all, but he couldn't stop talking. "My dad found out and--and it was just a fucking _mess. _You wouldn't--I mean--I'm gay, maybe, okay? But I--"

"Whoa, whoa," Luke reached for him, tentatively. He looked as if Noah had kicked his puppy.

Noah let Luke touch him anyway. "_Fuck_. Coming here was a mistake."

"I would have preferred the morning special, but... it's okay."

Luke was wearing a sad smile. Noah could tell he was nervous.

"How do I tell her?" he rasped out. "Fuck, how do I tell her?"

He was absolutely incoherent, but he couldn't fix it by himself.

Luke wrapped his arms around his waist.

"You were right. I can't do that to her--I love her, but I can't..."

Luke placed a hand between his shoulder blades.

"My father will kill me."

"He won't," Luke said.

Noah couldn't breathe. "I can't breathe."

"Come inside."

-

Luke handed him a cup of tea.

"What happened?"

Noah took a sip from the cup. "I saw the lease for the apartment... and I just freaked out."

Luke nodded and rubbed his knees. They were sitting on Luke's bed, one of the dimmest lights on. It hurt Noah's eyes still. He wouldn't ever admit it, but he'd only just stopped crying.

"I haven't signed the final papers yet. I was thinking about what you said... everything. You bailed me out again, even after everything you said. And I couldn't sign any of it." He swallowed. "I'm sorry for keeping you up."

"Hey, it's alright. I went downstairs for some ho-hos anyway."

Noah cracked a smile. "I never pegged you as a ho-hos kind of guy."

"Guilty pleasure."

Luke was smiling again. It was genuine. _Happy._

Noah tilted his head back. "Thank you. For everything."

This time he meant what he said.

-

"Maddie, can we sit down?"

-

"We need to talk, Sir."

-

"Can I come inside?"

"You brought ho-hos."

--

_19._

"I have a new philosophy. I'm going to dread only one day at a time."

Noah looked up from his cereal. "Why, Luke, how philosophical of you."

Luke shook the Sunday paper once and then folded it neatly. "I'll let Charlie Brown know you think so."

"Is it weird that you only read the Sunday paper on Mondays?"

"No more weird than you eating cereal for dinner."

"_I'll_ stop eating cheerios when _you_ step away from the ho-hos."

-

Some people are quicker to understand and accept than others.

Winston had always been on a time-delay.

Noah thinks he can finally afford to wait.

--

_End._


End file.
